guard dogs
by satyrs
Summary: "i had nightmares, so i drank. but you already knew that, so i do not why you asked."


this was for the prompt "smile," from one of the hundred theme challenges – i'm doing it to help my writing skills

(yeah and it's my headcanon that russia has two borzois, although only one is in this 'fic)

**pairing/s – **lithuania/russia.

**warnings – **language, alcoholism, portrayal of mental illness.

**rating – **let's go _t_, considering the language.

**disclaimer – **i do not own axis powers hetalia; hidekazu himaruya does. i also do not own the hundred theme challenge that i'm doing, but i can't remember who does.

–

He's so drunk right now he can hardly fucking remember his own name. It started with an "I," he remembers that. _I_ is a funny, selfish little letter. But it's strong, and _v_ isn't. And v is what follows, right? And – and his name isn't Ivy. Ivy is a plant, and it's an American name. (Maybe it's English, too.)

Across from him the clock hand falls on an unimportant number – outside it's dark. Someone forgot to close the curtains; usually he would care, but right now he doesn't honestly feel much of anything.

He's slumped against the arm of the sofa, arms folded underneath his chin and a blanket wrapped around his trembling form.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees something move in the darkness; he leans onto his support and kicks his legs underneath him, squirming to get a better look. He can make out a blurry canine figure with a lanky appearance, a tapering muzzle, splotches on its face and its backside.

He whispers, "Mitya," and the dog lopes to him, places its head in his lap. Mitya looks through old eyes and so does Russia, and perhaps it's that that makes them so close. He can't remember. He doesn't know why he's thinking like this, either.

But the lamp on the other side of the room flickers on, and Mitya's ears perk up, and behind the light there he can see Lithuania, so he moans and drops his head against the thing it was resting on. No, not this. Not right now. He has already dealt with enough self-hatred tonight, and Lithuania always makes him feel worse when he lectures him.

_Distract him._

"Did you know the wallpaper is peeling? We should repaint this room, you and I – maybe my sisters could help. I don't want to bother them, though, so just you and I, I suppose. But I could get someone to do that for us, couldn't I? We don't have a lot of money right now, though, but I might be able to think of something…"

He sinks back into his blanket, sheepish. Across from him Lithuania lowers himself onto the wood floor with a sigh, crossing his legs. His attempt to stall failed, and he knows that – but it still feels like a blow to the head; he hates losing arguments, points, anything. (Thoughts especially, but when he's drunk he loses a _lot_ of those and remembers all these things he's blocked off.)

"Ivan, why on earth are you still awake?"

The younger nation blinks. Actually, he can't remember why he's still awake. Nightmares, he thinks.

"Ahmm. Mitya woke me up. He was scratching at the wall – maybe he found a mouse."

The ears on the sides of Mitya's head fold back, as if he is angry at his master for blaming him; Russia scratches behind them, places his gloved hands on either side of the dog's furry neck and cards them through the hairs there. (When he is sure his secretary isn't looking, he mouths an apology.)

Of course, when he looks up, the expression on Lithuania's face is disbelieving – unlike China or the Golden Horde, he can always catch him in a lie. Yes, he's less harsh than the both of them, but he is intelligent and uses that against him, and Russia always wondered how he could get his so-called "siblings," to be quiet so easily. Perhaps he knows now.

"I had nightmares, so I drank. But you already knew that, so I do not why you asked."

As if to make a point, he leans down and snatches his flask up from the coffee table, puts it to his lips; Lithuania makes a face of disgust.

"Would you please stop lying and tell me the _real_ reason you're awake? I could help."

(You couldn't.)

He swallows, says, "I can't make myself smile right now, if you really must know. That is why I'm awake. Because everything feels wrong and I don't like myself and _he_ won't stay out of my head. Even you and Mitya look like threats to me right now, and I don't _like_ it."

Lithuania doesn't respond, so he puts an eye to the lip of his flask and peers down, frowning. He takes the eye away, shakes the container, and snaps his head back up with a pout.

He doesn't know when Lithuania sat down next to him, nor how he got across the room without falling on his face. After all, both of Russia's dogs are very large – the likes of which several occupants of this house have tripped over. It was funny then, but he's quite certain it's possible to break a bone like that, and he doesn't know what that anxious man would do without one or both of his arms.

Actually, maybe it isn't possible to break a bone like that at all. He doesn't even know why he's considering this; he usually isn't this illogical.

(You're a liar, Ivan.)

Dizzy and confused, Russia falls against the arm of the chair he had been leaning on, moves his eyes to the peeling wallpaper behind the lamp the other had appeared behind. He does really want to repaint that, but he hasn't ever painted anything in his life except for his sister's nails when her fingers were broken.

"They look so sad."

"The walls?"

"Grey. They – they look grey and sad."

Behind him Lithuania's back hits the sofa cushions and Russia is pulled on top of him, is content to allow this as he lays his head on the older nation's chest.

He can feel the veins in his wrists, finds them and traces along the little blue lines until they fall beneath the skin. He squints, remembers China telling him that blood is blue before it hits the air, and then it turns red.

(He can't for the life of him remember why his favorite color is red. It isn't blood. It's something else, and the sun is most certainly not red, so it isn't that either. He – he does like the sun, though. It's pretty when it's out, and it makes the melting snow pretty. It makes Lithuania's face prettier when he pulls him outside to see the winter thaw.)

Veins, veins, veins – there's a freckle on Lithuania's neck. He never noticed that. Skin, veins, another pale little freckle, skin and veins, veins and skin, scar, veins.

Russia whispers, "your skin is boring," and falls back onto his human pillow.

Slender fingers tangle in his hair, absentmindedly stroking, and he closes his eyes. (For a second, he's happy, but he still pretends he didn't ask Lithuania to love him as he fell asleep. Doesn't that always end the same way?)


End file.
